A Beginner's Guide to Destroying the Moon
by TJ Robinson
Summary: "Hey, Professor Oak… did you ever meet my dad?" / Chapter Two: "What was he like?"
1. The Angelic Welcome of Mister Jones

**Author's Note: **Story title and chapter titles borrowed from tracks off Foster the People's new album _Supermodel_ (which is fantastic, by the way).

Also... hey y'all. Long time, no see.

**Disclaimer: **Standard disclaimers apply.

* * *

**I.**

It started out with a relatively simple question: "Professor Oak, did you ever meet my dad?"

And, in turn, it was given a relatively simple answer: "Yes, Ash, I did. Once, a long time ago…"

* * *

_He peeks in through the doorway. The interior of the room is cozy and dark, save for a scant fount of light coming from a lamp on a tiny wooden bedside environment here, he thinks, is nothing like the hospitals he remembers from his youth: white, cold, and hollow, a cave of ice lined with the harsh, chemical scent of disinfectant, the metallic tang of blood and the pallor of despair._

_He is glad things have changed._

_Through the dim of the room, he makes out the shape of a small bed. On it, the petite figure of a woman lies fast in a medicinal sleep. He approaches her deliberately, observing how the long locks of auburn hair falling haphazardly from either side of her head curl and cling to the fabric of her pillow. He raises one large hand and runs it softly down the side her face, feeling the heat of her skin against the back of his fingers. _

_She opens her eyes slightly at his touch. "Hey," she manages in a hoarse whisper, raising her hand to hold his. "What time is it?"_

_Startled from his reverie, he quickly scans the room for a clock and finds one on the wall closest to the door. He squints his eyes to read the bold, black numbers on the clock face and replies, "It's a quarter to midnight."_

_"You should be home in bed, you know, not sneaking around hospitals," she chastises, a smile playing lightly on her lips._

_"I know," he concedes, gently sliding his way onto the edge of the bed to sit beside her. "I wanted to see you, though. To make sure you were okay."_

_"I'm fine – we're fine," she says, scarcely moving her head to indicate the bassinet beside her. "A little tired–" she yawns, lifting her other hand to cover her mouth, "—a little sore, but fine."_

_"I'm glad."_

_A beat. The two rest, side by side, with nothing between them now but a shared silence. She slowly removes her hand from his and lets it fall limply onto the mattress. She senses his hesitation – knows exactly what he wants so badly to say to her – but she won't allow it. Today is not a day for regrets, she thinks. Today is not even about them, really, but about the child cooing quietly beside her. _

_So before he can say anything else, she asks, "Would you like to see him?"_

_"Of course."_

_He carefully pulls himself up and makes his way over to the other side of the bed. Placing his hands on either side of the bassinet, he steadies himself and looks down at the little creature stirring beneath his shadow. The boy's wrinkled red face and big dark eyes stand out among the cocoon of beige blankets swaddling him, while a few unruly wisps of black hair stick out from underneath the tightly-wrapped linens._

_Watching the child as he sleeps, blissfully unaware of the fear and agony of the world outside or within himself, the man suddenly feels something he's never felt before. It moves into him, gradually at first, and then with one swift, powerful strike. In that moment, there's a connection, an unspoken promise to this beautiful, fragile, vulnerable little boy. He finally understands how the purity and the goodness of love can drive a person to violence, to rage, because he knows now that he would kill and die to protect his son, his innocence, without a moment's hesitation – and it frightens him._

_But there's no time to ponder, no room to breathe, nowhere to run from it even if he could. A familiar voice echoes through the din of his thoughts._

_"You can hold him, if you'd like."_

_He turns to face her, sees tears dampening her flushed cheeks, and realizes he's been crying, too. He hastily wipes his eyes on his sleeve and reaches down to gather his son in his arms. Cradling the boy's head in the crook of his arm and pressing him snugly to his coat, he makes his way over to the padded chair by the window in the far corner of the room. And there he sits, alternately watching his son sleep serenely against his chest and the dark blue of night give way to the pale purple twilight._

_He is gone before sunrise. And for only the second time in his very short life, the little boy cries._


	2. Pseudologia Fantastica

**II.**

Ash stood on the lower rail of the fence enclosing the pasture, trying to match the height of the man next to him. He leaned over the top rail, eyes looking out absently over the sun-soaked grassland, one arm dangling lazily over the nearest post and the other tightly clutching the beam below. A herd of Rapidash and their Ponyta kin ran past, so close that the fire of their manes flicked at his face and startled him out of his daze.

The boy flailed his arms and let out a yelp as he began to fall backward.

"Ah! Careful!"

He felt a pair of hands grab from the air and place him safely on the grass below. Ash stared down at the ground for a moment, trying to reorient himself, then looked up at the Professor, who had resumed his hunchbacked stance against the fence.

_He's pretty fast for an old guy_, thought Ash, who immediately covered his mouth out of force of habit and hoped that Professor Oak hadn't heard his thoughts.

The gesture didn't go unnoticed.

"Something wrong, Ash?"

The child removed the hand from his mouth and shrugged. "Nah. Just thinkin', is all."

"Oh?" said the Professor, his voice rising in interest as he turned to face the boy, one arm still propped against the rail of the fence. "Care to share your thoughts?"

"Um…"

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. Most people – even, occasionally, his _very_ patient mother – were telling the rambunctious six-year-old to quiet down and be still. It wasn't often (in fact, he was confident that it was never) that anyone, let alone an adult, wanted him to talk _more_.

So, being totally unprepared for this moment, Ash said the first thing that came into his head, a simple thought that always floating in the periphery of his consciousness.

"What was he like?"

The Professor furrowed his brow in bemusement. "Who, Ash?"

"My dad." The child paused, attempting to control the rapid torrent of wonder and anxiety rising from his chest to the back of his throat. "I mean, was he nice? Did he like Pokémon? What kind of Pokémon did he have? Was he a good trainer? Did he ever go to the Indigo Plateau? Did he ever face the Champion? Was he—"

"Whoa!" the Professor exclaimed on the edge of a laugh, holding up a hand to the child. "Slow down, my boy. I'm an old man, not a computer."

"Oh," Ash began, his enthusiasm somewhat dulled by the scientist's seeming rebuke. "I'm sorry."

"Now, now, there's no need to be sorry. As a researcher, I can certainly appreciate an avid sense of curiosity – just remember that I can only answer one question at a time. And… that I have limited knowledge of this particular subject."

"But you met him!" the child countered, not understanding how someone as smart as Professor Oak could not have the answers he so desperately wanted, especially since he seemed to be the only person besides his mother who knew anything about the man in question.

"Yes. Once. A long time ago. And, if I recall correctly, I've already told you about that."

The Professor's voice carried a tone to it that the boy couldn't quite place, and Ash, feeling that his window of opportunity and (possibly) the Professor's patience were rapidly dwindling, uncharacteristically conceded to this reasonable point and decided to take a different tack.

"How 'bout stories, then? Have you heard any stories 'bout him, Professor Oak? If he was an awesome trainer, people have probably talked 'bout him, right?"

The Professor allowed a small smile at the boy's persistence and returned his focus to the vast field beyond the fence, watching as the shadows of the trees beyond the green began to stretch and overtake the far edge of the grounds, not really searching for an answer to the child's query in the sight but finding one nonetheless.

"Hm… well, from what I've heard…"

* * *

_"You trainers are all the same," the woman hisses from her smirking mouth, eyes narrowed and set squarely on the young man across the room. "You all think you're going to be the best, that you're just going to breeze on past this _girl _and beat that _man_ upstairs."_

_Her challenger says nothing, save for the occasional grunt and grumble as he stumbles around the pitch-black room._

_"Well, let me set something straight, right now. All of you so-called _men _– including _him_ – are just little _boys_, hiding under your blankets and jumping at all of the things that go bump in the night." _

_She pauses for a moment, expecting an angry retort or at the very least a pathetic whimper. No such luck, so she continues: "But strength… it lies in darkness, in its unknowability and its indifference. And, as you'll soon see, the _imaginary_ darkness that you have feared is _nothing _compared to the _real_ thing."_

_The woman laughs, followed in suit by a thousand others. The reverb cuts through the gloom and sends her opponent staggering backward. He catches himself, barely, fumbles for his belt – and smiles, feeling the familiar grain of the old ball's surface against his fingertips. He pulls it off and throws it with a shout._

_"Go! Charizard!"_

_Before the creature can even take shape out of the beam of light arcing from the Pokéball, the woman launches her first attack._

_"Gengar! Lick!"_

_On her command, a small, squat figure scurries across the room, the ghost's glaring red eyes the only thing betraying her dusky camouflage. _

_But it's enough._

_"Charizard, grab it! Grab its tongue!"_

_The winged dragon, now fully formed and rearing his head back with a bellow of white-hot flame, grabs the ghost's long, protruding tongue and strangles it in his powerful grasp, paralyzing the spiky ball of shadow the way she intended to do to him._

_The Pokémon looks back at his master, awaiting his next order._

_"Dragon Rage."_

_A white glow overtakes the irises of Charizard's eyes, and the tip of his tail erupts in a blaze. He points the end of his snout towards the hapless beast clutched in his talons, opens his mouth, and lets loose the fires of Hell._

_The captive screeches and writhes in agony before being let go to collapse in a smoking heap. The trainer knows that the battle isn't over – far from it – but he takes the moment to speak his mind._

_"There is one thing you forgot to mention in your speech, miss." _

_He pauses, feeling somewhat guilty as the ragged gasps and moans of the downed Gengar reach his ears. _

_"It's that, in the end, no matter how deep the darkness… it will always be overcome by the light."_


End file.
